The End?
by CMPerry
Summary: Yet again, Watson's life is in danger because of the company Sherlock Holmes keeps. Holmes x Watson - not slash, just fluff. Rated T to be safe due to mild torture - if there is such a thing! Takes place after AGoS
1. Warehouse

**A/N My first Sherlock Holmes fic. I know Moriarty may seem OOC to some, but I have written him as a combination of Moriarty from the films and also the portrayal of Moriarty in the BBC series Sherlock where he is generally more upfront about his insanity. Enjoy.**

Holmes was standing in a dark warehouse, his back pressed against a cold metal pillar. His hands were tied uncomfortably tightly behind his back and in front of him stood Moriarty, his face hidden in shadows. He was pacing up and down in front of Holmes, a gleeful bounce in his step as he surveyed the immobilised detective. This was the second time in six months that Holmes had been standing at the mercy of Moriarty. It was becoming something of an unfortunate habit. At least this time he didn't have a huge metal hook protruding from his shoulder. Not yet, anyway.

Several months ago he had leapt from a balcony in Switzerland, pulling Moriarty with him. He had hoped that that would have been the death of his nemesis, but his dear Irene had been right, Moriarty was just as brilliant as he was, and infinitely more devious. Unfortunately, Moriarty had also survived the hundred foot drop in to the icy Swiss water. So here they were again, face to face each desperately trying to plot the death of the other, and it appeared that Moriarty was winning at this moment.

Moriarty gave a long, theatrical laugh.

"You really are fantastically conceited, aren't you?" he sneered, as if he had read Holmes' mind. "Believe it or not, my dear fellow, killing you is not my sole purpose in life."

Holmes wasn't really listening. His eyes were flicking around the dim warehouse while his hands worked deftly at the knot binding them together behind his back. His mind was racing with possibilities for escape, but Moriarty was an intelligent man. Every escape route Holmes could think of was made impossible by the lines of armed guards surrounding the building.

"No..." he heard Moriarty saying thoughtfully. "Killing you would be far too kind. And where would the fun be for me? I want to see you suffer Holmes, really suffer. Perhaps then you will get a taste of the anger and disappointment that I feel every time you and your ridiculous lap dog get in the way of my plans!" By the end of his sentence he had emerged from the shadows and was practically screaming in Holmes' face. The detective did his best to keep his face neutral, however. If all else were to fail, he would at least try to be as irritating as possible.

"Right. So will we do dinner first then torture, or torture then dinner?" he asked nonchalantly, still desperately fiddling with the ropes binding his wrists.

"I think we should get started right away, don't you?" Moriarty said. He stared at Holmes for a long moment, with a manic glint in his eye, as if he could already visualise the things he was going to do to Holmes, and they delighted him.

He raised his hand dramatically and clicked his fingers. Holmes craned his neck to see what was happening as he heard shuffling footsteps behind him.

He felt a little sick at the thought of what might be about to happen to him. Images of rusty surgical instruments sprang to mind, but he tried not to think of such things. He steeled himself for the ordeal that was about to occur, determined to face it as coolly as possible. He wasn't going to give Moriarty the satisfaction of watching him scream.

But as the dark shapes behind him came in to clearer view, he saw the method of torture that Moriarty had in store for him and it was worse than anything he could possibly have imagined.

It was Watson.


	2. A Friend in Need

Watson was thrown to the ground at Moriarty's feet. He, too, had his hands tied behind his back, but his ankles were also bound and he was gagged. Watson struggled to his knees in an attempt to retain some form of dignity, but as their eyes met, Holmes could see his loyal companion was terrified.

"What is it they say?" Moriarty said, grinning. "Never go for the kill when you can go for the pain."

He grabbed Watson by the collar and tore his shirt from his back.

"Such a remarkable physique," he remarked, surveying the doctor's muscular frame. "What a shame..." Moriarty pulled a little knife from his pocket.

Holmes was now positively clawing at the ropes tying his wrists, but still tried to keep a straight face when addressing Moriarty.

"Do what you like to Watson," Holmes said, in a would-be-casual voice, "I can't say I would be terribly bothered." But as hard as he tried, Holmes couldn't keep the frightened tremble from his voice.

"Liar, liar," Moriarty chided. "I think this is a fantastic way to torment you Holmes. What better way to make you suffer than to make you watch your little friend die in agony."

With a little flick of his wrist, he drew his knife across Watson's ribs, leaving a long trail of blood behind him.

Even though he was gagged, Watson's scream echoed around the warehouse.

"Leave him alone!" Holmes shouted, wishing desperately to be able to reach Watson and save him.

"But it's just so terribly entertaining," Moriarty sneered. With that, he drew the knife again across Watson's chest, creating a long deep gash.

Watson's eyes rolled back and his body tensed in anguish as he screamed again, yet he remained stubbornly on his knees, refusing to fall to the ground.

"STOP IT!" Holmes screamed. "That's enough!" He was now pulling so hard at the ropes binding him that it felt like his wrists were on fire.

Moriarty simply grinned as flicked the knife again across Watson's front. His entire torso was now stained red with blood as it poured from his wounds.

Seeing Watson in such pain made Holmes feel sick. His best friend was kneeling just feet from him and he was unable to do anything to help him. Watson's grey trousers were already darkened with the blood flowing from his chest.

Moriarty stood with his eyes fixed on Holmes, clearly relishing the anguish in his eyes.

"Behold, the great Sherlock Holmes," he scoffed. "You solve incredible mysteries and escape from impossible situations on a regular basis, but look at you now. You are standing there watching your precious lap dog bleed and you aren't doing anything about it. To be honest, I'm a little disappointed in you Holmes, I expected you to at least put up a fight."

"What is this really about, James?" Holmes hissed, furiously blinking his eyes to rid them of the tears that were welling up. "Are you too much of a coward to try and kill me? Is that why you are taking it all out on Watson?"

"I could kill you in a heartbeat, Holmes. I just find this way to be much more satisfying."

"I don't believe you," Holmes spat back. "You couldn't kill me even if you tried." As he was speaking, Holmes started easing his boots off while trying to keep Moriarty distracted.

Moriarty straightened up and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He gazed at Holmes thoughtfully for a moment as he cleaned Watson's blood from the blade. He slid the knife in to his back pocket and approached Holmes. Moriarty was a little shorter than he was, but that made him no less formidable. He put a hand around Holmes' neck and thrust his head back against the metal pillar.

"Do you believe me now Holmes?" he whispered maniacally.

"No," Holmes choked out. With an almighty effort he jumped and wrapped his legs around Moriarty's waist. He pulled his enemy towards him and head-butted him in the middle of the forehead while at the same time, used his now bare toes to swipe the knife from his back pocket.

Moriarty stumbled backwards, completely disoriented. Holmes dropped the knife by his feet and sat down against the pillar. With his bound hands now at ground level, he managed to pick up the knife and start awkwardly hacking at the ropes. It was slow work and not being able to see what he was doing, he felt the knife slice his skin on more than one occasion. A few seconds later, Moriarty stopped staggering and straightened up. There was already an angry red welt on his forehead and he looked furious. He practically ran towards Holmes, who was still struggling to free himself. Moriarty drew back his foot and kicked Holmes hard in the stomach. Holmes doubled over as far as his tied wrists would allow, completely winded.

"You want me to kill you Holmes?" he bellowed. "Then you will get your wish." Holmes felt a fist collide with the side of his face and heard the cracking of his cheekbone. Before he had even properly registered the first blow, Moriarty struck him again, this time on the other side of the face. But as Moriarty drew his fist back for a third strike, several things happened in quick succession. Holmes felt a jolt as the knife finally made it through the thick rope and within seconds he was on his feet and without a second thought, plunged the knife in to Moriarty's stomach. Over his shoulder, Holmes saw Watson had collapsed on the floor in a pool of his own blood, and he couldn't resist giving the knife a good twist in to Moriarty's gut.

"I thought you said you could kill me in a heartbeat," he hissed in to Moriarty's ear before throwing him bodily on the floor. Without a moment's hesitation, Holmes ran to Watson.

"John," he shouted, shaking his friend by the shoulders. "John can you hear me? Can you walk?"

Watson gave an incoherent mumble, but didn't try to speak. He was barely able to open his eyes. Holmes quickly untied the ropes binding the doctor and pulled the gag away from his mouth.

"Come on, old chap," he said, trying to sound positive as he pulled Watson's arm over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet. The doctor made a feeble attempt at supporting his own weight, but his knees buckled beneath him.

"Don't be so lazy," Holmes teased, trying to keep himself calm more than anything else. But Watson was so weak that Holmes was practically dragging him along the warehouse floor leaving a dark trail of blood behind them.

**A/N Please take a few moments to review the story so far. If it seems to go down well I will continue. Thanks for reading. **


	3. Thoughts

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in an uncomfortable armchair, his knees drawn up to his chin. He had been sitting there, almost constantly, for three days. He hadn't eaten or slept, but more surprisingly, he hadn't smoked or drank anything either. He was just sitting, his already scruffy hair a tousled mess, wearing the same blood-stained clothes he had arrived at the hospital in seventy-two hours ago.

In front of him lay John. His entire torso was covered in thick bandages and his face looked ashen. He looked so vulnerable lying between the crisp hospital sheets and somehow, he looked smaller.

"He has lost a lot of blood," the doctor had said. "I'm afraid his chances of survival are rather slim. We can always hope for the best, but you should prepare yourself for the worst."

_Prepare for the worst... _It didn't even bear thinking about. Holmes rested his chin on his knees and stared wide-eyed at his companion. There was so much he hadn't told Watson. He was always so damn fixated on being mysterious and cryptic. _Egotistical bastard, _he muttered, cursing himself. He should have told Watson how much he valued him as a companion. He should have thanked him for the countless times he had saved his life. He should have been more grateful to Watson for staying with him throughout his ludicrous adventures.

Any other man would have given up on Holmes a long time ago. The amount of times he had put Watson in danger was bordering on unforgivable, yet John always came back to him.

He went to lean his head on his hand but thought better of it when a searing pain shot across his cheek. He had forgotten about the large purple and red bruises on his face. The pain reminded him horribly of the ordeal in the warehouse with Moriarty. That man really was incredibly devious. Like any good boxer, he had found Holmes's weak spot and targeted it to cause maximum pain. And in this case, his weak spot had been how deeply he cared for Watson. Moriarty had known that it would cause Holmes so much more pain to watch Watson suffer than it would if he had been the one taking the knife wounds.

Holmes barely looked up as a nurse came in to the room to check on John.

"You have dirt under your fingernails," Holmes said, his voice cracking from not being used in several days. "And you have someone else's blood spattered on your sleeve. How do you expect to help people if you don't even have a basic understanding of personal hygiene?" he spat. "Get out. And for God's sake, don't come back until you are less of an infection risk."

"I..." the nurse started, staring at her fingernails in disbelief as though she had no idea how Holmes could have noticed such minute details having barely taken his gaze off Watson. The nurse made a few incomprehensible noises before hurrying from the room, mortified.

If Watson were conscious, he would have scolded Holmes for being so harsh on the young nurse. Watson had always been the compassionate one, which was very useful considering Holmes was usually completely tactless in social situations.

_Watson, Watson, Watson. Is that all you can think about? _he asked himself angrily. He was used to his mind being a neatly ordered and organised sanctuary where he could unravel any conundrum but now... now his mind was in turmoil. Whenever he had slipped in to an uneasy sleep over the past three days, it was only to be jolted awake moments later by dreadful nightmares about John.

Holmes had no idea if Moriarty was dead or not, but that was of no consequence. If Watson died, Moriarty would have finally succeeded in destroying Sherlock Holmes, and he had barely needed to lay a finger on him.

**A/N Thank you for reading, and thanks for the reviews so far. Please keep reviewing so I know if I'm doing alright! **


	4. Sentiment

It was now four days since they had escaped from the warehouse, and Watson was still unconscious. Sherlock Holmes still hadn't moved from his armchair by the doctor's bed, nor had he slept.

He stared at Watson for a long while before finally snapping. He stood up, ignoring his muscles screaming in protest after being curled up in a chair for so long. He approached Watson's bed and leant his hands on the mattress matter-of-factly.

"Right Watson, I know you can hear me and I'm damn well bored of sitting here waiting for you to wake up, so just wake up now. You've made your point. I see now that I..." he hesitated for a moment, thirty-seven years of habit discouraging him from revealing any deep feelings. "Look, I can't do without you. I need you with me. We complement each other, and without you, I'm just an insensitive, unsympathetic man with no real friends. Please..."

Holmes trailed off as he felt his hands start to tremble. His chest felt tight and he could feel a lump rise in his throat. He gasped a little as he realised that he was crying. For the first time since he was a child, he was crying. It was such an alien experience to him, and he didn't like it. He tried to stop himself, tried to pull himself together and convince himself that he was just being ridiculous, but no amount of reasonable thinking could stop him.

"Please, Watson," he moaned. His breath was now coming in painful gasps as he fell to his knees by his friend's side. He pressed his forehead in to his shaking hands. "Wake up you selfish bastard!" he half-shouted. "You can't leave me. You're the only person I can rely on. You are the only person I love and you are leaving. You son of a bitch!"

"Language, Holmes."

Holmes looked up suddenly to see Watson looking at him.

"Watson," he whispered.

"You look dreadful, Holmes," he said, croakily.

"You look worse," he said with a weak smile.

"How long has it been since you slept?" the doctor asked him. Watson still looked sick and drained, but concern for his friend burned in his green eyes.

"Four days," Holmes said, still kneeling by the bed. "I couldn't sleep while you were..." but he couldn't even finish the sentence.

With what looked like a great deal of effort, Watson lifted his hand and placed it gently on Holmes's face, careful to avoid his blackening bruises. He tenderly wiped the tears from Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

"You can sleep now," he said quietly.

Holmes closed his eyes for a few seconds, savouring this moment. He had his doctor back. Without even moving from his kneeling position by the bed, he let his head fall on to the mattress.

He felt Watson's fingers in his hair, no doubt trying to tease out the knots that had turned his hair in to a tangled mess over the past four days.

"Oh, how I've missed you, Watson," he whispered. Even before he had finished speaking, he could feel himself being enveloped by sleep and within seconds, he had drifted in to the first peaceful sleep he had had in a long time.

**A/N Thanks for reading. Please take a few seconds to review!**


	5. Spectacularly Irritating

Just two days after waking up in the hospital, John Watson arrived at 221b Baker Street with Holmes at his side. He had decided it would be best for him to stay in his old room while Mary was on holiday in Cornwall. He had lied to both his doctor and to Holmes about his condition. He had told them his pain was minimal and he was feeling well enough to go home. This was not entirely true but he could not have spent another moment in that cramped, dingy ward.

Watson limped up the short flight of stairs to the shiny black door of 221b, with Holmes walking slightly behind, and chapped the door three times with his cane. The setting sun cast long shadows on to the door before them. A few seconds passed before Mrs Hudson opened the door.

"Doctor Watson," she said, a mixture of relief and surprise on her face as she saw him and Holmes at the door. "I haven't seen either of you in days. Are you alright?"

"Lovely to see you Mrs Hudson," Watson said, tipping his hat to her, "and yes, we're fine thank you."

"Yes, yes, fine," Holmes said impatiently pushing past both of them and over the threshold. He stripped off his overcoat and removed his hat, dumping them unceremoniously by the door. Without another word he strode up the stairs. A moment later, they heard the bang of his bedroom door.

Mrs Hudson looked a little taken aback as she followed Holmes with her gaze, while Watson was unsurprised by his mood.

Since their somewhat emotional moment in the hospital a few days ago, Holmes had been, if possible, even more detached and irritatingly aloof than usual. It was as if he were overcompensating for the lapse in his typically impassive demeanour.

"What's the matter with him?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"He's just..." Watson started, but he wasn't sure what to say. _Embarrassed he showed emotion? Pretending he doesn't have feelings? Being an arrogant arse? _

"He's just... being Holmes," he said finally.

Mrs Hudson shook her head slightly as she picked up Holmes' hat and coat that he had abandoned on the floor.

"Here, let me," Watson said, taking the items from the landlady and hanging them on the stand by the door before removing his own outerwear and hanging it up too.

"Can I get you anything, Doctor?" she asked.

"That's very kind, but no thank you," he replied with a smile.

Watson stood in the hallway until Mrs Hudson had completely disappeared from view before attempting to climb the stairs. Even when putting all his weight on his cane, it was still a huge effort to make it up the steps. His chest and abdomen ached as every footstep pulled on his slowly healing wounds. He felt as though someone was holding a burning poker to his sides as he walked and began to wonder if it had been such a good idea to leave the hospital after all.

When he eventually reached the landing, he was a little out of breath. He approached the detective's room and gave a little knock on the door, more out of habit than anything else. Whether Holmes invited him or not, he would still enter the room.

Holmes said nothing, so Watson opened the door anyway. The detective sat in his usual armchair by the window, reading a backdated newspaper. The curtains were drawn and an oil lamp burned lazily beside Holmes. An unfinished game of chess lay between him and Watson's chair. Watson could vaguely remember starting the game with Holmes nearly two weeks ago.

Watson limped over to his armchair and sat down too, leaning his cane against the wall beside him.

"You know," he started, taking advantage of Holmes' silence, "Mary won't be back from Cornwall for another few days. We should do something with our time. Dinner, perhaps?" As he spoke, he studied the chessboard in front of him before finally shifting a bishop diagonally across the board. "Check," he added.

Holmes lowered his newspaper and glanced at the chess game in front of him for no more than a few seconds. With a lazy prod, he moved one pawn.

"Checkmate," he said, curtly, and returned to his paper without another word.

"You are being intentionally difficult, Holmes," Watson said with an exasperated sigh.

"I'm simply playing the game," he said.

"I'm not talking about the chess game and you know it," he shot back, feeling his temper flare. He picked up his cane and headed for the door, dodging piles of books and chemistry equipment on the way, determined not to let Holmes anger him.

"Going so soon?"

"I'm going to my room," Watson answered tersely. Holmes said nothing else, but turned to the next page of his newspaper.

Watson walked to his room and opened the door. It took him a considerable amount of effort to open the door. When he finally made it in to his room, he saw what had been blocking the door. Much to his annoyance, there was barely a square inch of floor to be seen. Apparently in Watson's absence, Holmes had begun to use the doctor's room as a dumping ground for everything he didn't need or want in his own room. It was incredible that Holmes had now managed to fill two entire rooms with useless crap.

Turning on his heel, he stormed back in to Holmes' room.

"What is all that?" he asked angrily.

"Equipment," Holmes answered indifferently.

"Equipment for what?" Watson spat back. "What exactly do you need eighteen copies of _The Origin of Species _for?"

"There are only fifteen copies, and one never knows when such things might come in handy."

"Completely ridiculous," Watson muttered to himself, sitting on the edge of Holmes' bed and untying his shoes.

"What are you doing?" Holmes asked, glancing at Watson for the first time since arriving at Baker Street.

"I am going to bed."

"You have a bed of your own."

"It's buried under six feet of your crap!" Watson exclaimed angrily. "Now shut up, or _you _will be buried under six feet of crap. I'm going to sleep."

With that, Watson climbed in to Holmes' bed and turned his back to him, hoping Holmes would be back to his slightly less irritating self in the morning.

**A/N Please take a few moment to review, your comments mean the world to me!**

**Apologies for the long delay, expect the next couple of chapters soon! **


	6. A New Case

Watson was woken in the early hours of the morning by the sound of scraping furniture. He pushed himself stiffly in to a sitting position and looked around.

"What are you doing, Holmes?" he asked, a little irritated by his rude awakening.

"An experiment," Holmes answered, dashing between his workbenches, haphazardly sifting through boxes of chemicals and making quite a mess in the process.

"Now," he continued, "where is Gladstone?"

"Holmes, I told you a fortnight ago that Mary took him to Cornwall. She thought it would be nice for him to get some fresh air and rest from... well... this."

"Ah, yes, of course," he said, still hurrying from table to table and shelf to shelf, his dark hair sticking up at all angles. "No matter," he said, before suddenly straightening up. "I'm going for a walk."

"It's three o'clock in the morning!" Watson said, disbelievingly.

"The perfect time to find a few cats for my experiment."

"Holmes, you are _not_ conducting experiments on people's cats!" Watson exclaimed, getting out of bed.

"Would a dog be better?" he asked, looking up thoughtfully. "I'm sure we could find a stray or two..."

"What? No!" Watson said. "You are not going out in the middle of the night to abduct pets for your experiments!"

Holmes said nothing, but started violently crushing herbs in a mortar.

"Holmes," Watson said, "are you by any chance desperate for a new case?"

"Of course I am, I don't cope well with long periods of inactivity," Holmes answered abruptly.

"I've noticed," Watson said, smiling a little to himself. "Come on," he said, sitting on the bed and pulling on his shoes. "We're going for a walk."

"To find some cats?" Holmes asked.

"No."

Watson took a long look at his companion as he stared intently at a test tube of frothing liquid.

"You know Holmes, if, God forbid, you ever lose your mind, I don't know if anyone would notice the difference..."

* * *

><p>The London streets were silent and deserted as the two men walked along the pavement, their breath rising in clouds before them.<p>

They didn't speak very often, but unlike the night before, the silence was comfortable.

Eventually Holmes spoke,

"Shall we make it a short walk?"

"Why?"

"Did you think I didn't notice how long it took you to climb the stairs yesterday? Not to mention how much more pronounced your limp is. I imagine your most troublesome wounds are on your left-hand side?"

"Yes..." Watson said, a little annoyed at how well Holmes could read him. "But we don't need to cut the walk short on my account. The fresh air will do me good."

As they turned on to Park Road, a small tabby cat darted across the road in front of them.

"Don't you dare," Watson warned as he felt Holmes tense beside him. "You can experiment on Gladstone when he comes back."

"Why is Mary in Cornwall?" he asked.

"She's visiting relatives there."

"Good."

Watson would have told Holmes not to sound so pleased that Mary was gone, but he just didn't have the energy to start that argument again. Holmes was constantly making little remarks about Mary that he thought Watson didn't notice. He did try to be understanding; he had been one of Holmes' only friends for a long time and now Holmes was expected to share him with another person. It was only natural that he felt a little competitive with Mary.

If Watson was honest with himself, he was actually rather pleased that Mary was out of London. She would not be pleased to see that he had been injured in the company of Holmes yet again.

"And she just took my dog without asking?" he continued.

"I thought you said he was our dog?" Watson asked, smiling.

"Our dog, _the _dog, whatever you want to call him, she could have asked."

"She asked me and I said it would be fine. Besides, some rest will be good for him."

"Hmm."

They continued walking for a minute or two in silence. Watson went to glance around at Holmes but realised with some surprise that he had disappeared. He stopped and looked around for his companion. As he glanced to his left, he jumped with fright when he saw Holmes standing just inches from his face.

"Jesus! What are you doing?" he exclaimed, his heart racing.

"My dear Watson, I know I am incredibly talented in so many different areas, but there really is no need to call me Jesus."

Watson rolled his eyes.

"Now, keep walking," Holmes said in a quiet voice.

Watson started walking again, with Holmes now walking closely behind him.

"Now, do you see that man ahead of us?" he muttered in to Watson's ear.

"Yes," Watson said, just able to make out the silhouette of a man in a long overcoat in the distance.

"What do you notice about him?"

"Besides the fact that he is out walking at three thirty in the morning?" Watson asked, squinting ahead of him. He was still very far away, so it took Watson a few moments to be able to make out anything.

"He is holding his arm in strange position," Watson said finally. "And he's walking rather quickly."

"Exactly," Holmes said. "And there is a bulge under his overcoat. He is most likely holding his arm in that position to keep the item secured beneath his coat. Judging by the size of the object, the thin leather strap protruding from inside his jacket, not to mention the speed at which he is walking and the lengths he is going to to conceal this item, I would deduce that it is in fact a woman's handbag that he has just stolen from a house along this street." He said all this very quickly, still speaking quietly near Watson's ear.

"Holmes, I can only just tell that he is wearing an overcoat, how can you see that much from so far away?"

"It's easy when you know what to look for," he answered.

He finally drew away from Watson's ear and started walking beside him again. The man on the pavement was only a few feet away now and Watson noticed to his slight concern that he was almost double the size of Holmes with big, broad shoulders. Regardless, Watson waited until the man was just about to hurry past him and stuck out his cane. The man tripped, throwing out his hands to break the fall. Watson dipped down and snatched the object which had now fallen out from under the bigger man's arm. Holmes had been absolutely correct. It was a small, black leather handbag. Watson straightened up and carried on walking, tucking the bag safely under his own coat.

He glanced behind him and saw that Holmes had stopped. The detective's eyes glazed over for a split second and Watson knew he was precisely predicting the thief's next move and planning how he was going to neutralise him. He saw the thief jump up from the ground, his big hands clenched in to fists.

Watson carried on walking, sure that Holmes would not need his help for this. A second later, Watson heard three thumps behind him. The next moment, Holmes had caught up with him. Glancing over his shoulder again, Watson saw the burly thief lying curled on the ground, clutching his stomach.

"Do you think we are getting too old for this?" Watson asked, his knife wounds burning.

"Nonsense," Holmes said, his eyes sparkling as he pulled his pipe from him pocket and proceeded to light it.

Holmes' accurate streak continued as they walked along the road and saw an open door. An elderly woman was standing in a nightgown by her door, her face ashen and her hands trembling.

"I believe this belongs to you," Watson said as he drew level with her front door.

"Oh!" she exclaimed with a look of such relief on her face. "Thank you so much! How can I repay you?"

"Oh, there's no need for that. You have a good night, ma'am." Watson said politely, tipping his hat to her.

"And lock your door, you silly woman." Holmes added.

"Holmes!" Watson scolded.

"Well, that wasn't much of a case," he said, still sounding a little restless. "Oh look, a man with a stolen handbag. Ah, there is the owner of the handbag, fifty yards down the street. Case closed."

Watson said nothing, but it felt good to have Holmes almost back to normal.

* * *

><p>Watson awoke the next morning feeling better than he had in days. He sat up in the bed and saw Holmes lying beside him, still fast asleep.<p>

A spot of colour caught his eye and he glanced down to see there was a little blood soaking through the bandages that were wrapped around his torso. He must have reopened a couple of his wounds when he leant down to pick up the stolen handbag the night before.

"You need to change your bandages," came Holmes' muffled voice beside him.

Watson glanced down at him. He had his arm over his eyes apparently shielding himself from the morning light. This was the first time that Watson has seen Holmes without a shirt on since the warehouse and it was only then that he noticed several long and quite deep cuts on Holmes' wrists.

"I assume those cuts on your wrists aren't what they look like," Watson asked.

"What?" Holmes asked, absent-mindedly. "Oh, those," he said, lifting his arm away from his face and studying his wrists with a look of mild interest. "Don't be ridiculous Watson. I hold myself in far too high regard to cause myself that kind of damage on purpose."

"Says the man who drinks formaldehyde recreationally," Watson interjected.

"As I recall," Holmes continued, "I acquired these particular wounds as I made a somewhat slapdash escape from a warehouse. I believe I was in a hurry because I was trying to save someone's life. I can't remember for the life of me who it was though..." he said. Holmes' attempt at appearing aloof was foiled when Watson caught him give a little smile.

"You know how grateful I am for that, don't you?" Watson said, suddenly serious.

Holmes didn't reply, apparently still very wary of showing any heartfelt emotions. Instead, he changed the subject.

"You should change those bandages, I don't want you getting blood all over my bed."

"No, because your bed is a haven of cleanliness..." Watson said sarcastically, pulling a waistcoat from underneath his pillow as he did so.

When he had been in the hospital, he had seen a side of Holmes that he had never seen before, and hoped he would never see again. His dark brown eyes were burning with passion, anger, pain. It had made Watson's heart ache just to behold. He dearly hoped he would never put Holmes through that kind of agony again.

Watson was just about to get out of bed when the bedroom door flew open and Gladstone came bounding in.

"Gladstone?" Watson asked, a little confused.

Before he had ever registered what Gladstone's presence meant, Mary walked in.

She took one look at the scene before her; her husband wrapped in bloodstained bandages from armpit to hips; his shoulders dappled with bluish-black bruises; Sherlock Holmes lying in bed next to him and the floor covered in papers, bottles and clothes.

"What have you done to him now?" she said, angrily addressing Holmes.

"My dear woman, what gives you the idea that this is my fault?" Holmes asked, sitting up in the bed.

"Don't patronise me, Holmes," she spat, her blue eyes flashing with anger. "I have been gone for two weeks and I return to find my husband has been torn to pieces! Terrible things always happen to John when he is with you. You seem to attract nothing but trouble."

"Mary," Watson said, climbing out of bed and walking over to her.

She studied him from head to toe, frowning with worry.

"Mary, I'm fine," Watson said, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned her head on his chest and held him close for a moment.

"Do you have any idea how much I worry about you?" she said, finally pulling away from him and staring him straight in the eye. She looked pale and drained, probably because of her long journey back to London.

"I know, but I'm fine, and this is not Holmes' fault."

Mary suddenly looked annoyed again.

"I'm very sure that it is," she said, casting the detective another irritated look. "Every time you are in the company of Sherlock Holmes I go mad with worry. I sit and wait for someone to arrive at my door and tell me that something dreadful has happened to you."

Watson saw her eyes fill a little with tears.

"You are my husband, I want to have a family with you and I want you to live long enough to see your children grow up..."

Over Mary's shoulder Watson saw Holmes roll his eyes.

"I've tried to be understanding, John," she said, but she stopped mid-sentence, wiping tears from her cheeks.

"Come here," he said, pulling her back in to his embrace and resting his head on hers. "I'm not going anywhere."

She said nothing for a moment and when she finally spoke, her voice cracked with emotion.

"John, I can't do this," she said.

"Do what?" he asked, suddenly worried.

"I can't keep worrying about you. I love you too much..."

"What are you saying?" Watson asked, studying her face intently.

"I'm sorry John," she said, glancing at Holmes, "but it's either him or me."


	7. Left Unspoken

John Watson stood staring blankly at the door where, moments ago, his wife, Mary had just asked him to make an impossible decision.

"I'm sorry, John, but it's either him or me."

With that, she had turned and left the room without another word. Watson felt angry. How could she ask him to make such a decision? Despite his anger, Watson could understand her reasoning behind it. It was true that when he was in the company of Holmes he did tend to end up wounded. He knew that if the tables were turned and Mary was the one being badly injured at least three or four times a year, he would be worried sick, too.

But how could he choose?

Sherlock Holmes was his best friend. He gave his life purpose and excitement. He challenged him to the very edge of his intellectual ability.

But he had made vows to his wife. He loved her, and he wanted to be with her.

Watson finally tore his gaze away from the door and turned to Holmes. He was still sitting in the same position that he was when Mary entered the room, propped up on his elbows on the bed.

He didn't look at Watson. He just slipped out of the bed and pulled on a shirt before heading over to his usual armchair.

"Holmes," he said tentatively.

"There's nothing to say, my dear fellow," he said, still not meeting Watson's gaze. "I think it's very clear what your decision is going to be." He settled down in his armchair, staring out of the window with his fingertips pressed together, as though he were deep in thought.

"Mary is my wife," Watson said. It hurt him so much to have to make this decision, but Holmes was right, his choice was clear.

"Yes, yes, quite right," Holmes said, almost dismissively.

"I _have _to go," Watson said. He felt as though he was trying to convince himself of that fact as much as Holmes.

Holmes said nothing, but picked up his violin which was propped up against the side of the chair and started plucking absent-mindedly at the strings.

"Holmes, please," he said. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say to his old friend. They had been an incredible team for nearly a decade and now, all of a sudden, he was having to say his final goodbyes. Even after all those years together, all the shared experiences and memories, the heartache, the terror, the excitement, Watson had no idea what to say. There was too much to say and not any time to say it.

Holmes still didn't look up, he just leant down and picked up his bow and began to play his violin, facing the window. Watson knew Holmes had nothing to say to him. He could almost feel the hurt and the pain coming off of Holmes in waves, but the inexpressive detective would never voice such feelings.

Watson didn't want their partnership end this way.

"Holmes," he said, more firmly. But Holmes, stubborn as ever, remained silent.

"Sherlock," Watson said, this time the pain in his voice was quite audible. Holmes stopped playing his violin for a moment on hearing his first name, but didn't turn around to face his companion.

A few painful, silent seconds passed by, the air thick with things left unspoken. Watson felt as though a hole had been ripped in his chest. The anguish he felt from having to give up his life with Holmes burned like a raw wound.

Finally, Holmes resumed the playing of his violin. There was nothing left for him to say.

Watson picked up his shoes from beside the bed and headed for the door. He took a long last look at his best friend; without a doubt the most brilliant man he had ever met, and the most loyal companion. His hands shook a little as he reached out for the door handle.

"Goodbye Holmes," Watson said, as he pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

><p>Holmes heard the click of his door closing; one little click that signified the end of a decade of friendship. He put his violin down, no longer needing to use it as a shield between himself and the doctor.<p>

As he sat down, his mind raced through so many emotions he could barely keep up. Sadness, anger, jealousy, hurt, grief. He resented his emotions. He always did his best to ignore them. Emotions cloud one's judgement. They are inconvenient obstacles in the way of clear thinking. Yet Watson always had a way of bringing out the best and worst feeling in him.

Watson. His closest friend, his faithful companion... Holmes felt the now increasingly familiar tightness in his chest as the feelings of grief and loss burned within him.

He did his best to put his feelings to one side – to compartmentalise them – but to no avail. So he turned to the only other way he knew of to dull the ache of his damned emotions. He reached out to the cabinet beside him and picked up a bottle of brandy.

"Cheers," he muttered to the empty room.

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><p><strong>AN Thank you so much for reading - the next chapter will be up very soon. Please let me know what you think of the story so far. **


	8. Shadows

Almost a month after he left, Watson knocked on the door of 221b Baker Street with his cane. Standing on the familiar doorstep felt comfortable, almost as though he had never left. A few moments later Mrs Hudson answered the door.

"Good evening, Mrs Hudson, lovely to see you again," Watson said, limping in to the house. But he had barely crossed the threshold when she slapped him hard across the face.

"What... ow!" Watson exclaimed.

"Three and a half weeks, John," she hissed. Watson was a little taken aback to see the anger blazing in her eyes. "Three and a half weeks of complete silence from you and then you just turn up at my door unannounced! You have some nerve."

"I do apologise, Mrs Hudson," Watson said, still a little confused at the intensity of her reaction towards him.

"You have no idea what you have put Sherlock through. I have never seen him this bad before."

Watson vaguely noticed how odd it was that Mrs Hudson was calling Holmes by his first name.

"I didn't think you really cared for Sherlock," Watson said, still frowning.

"And I thought _you did_," the landlady shot back. "But it appears we were both mistaken. He may not be an ideal tenant, but I wouldn't want to see anyone in that much pain."

"What do you mean?" Watson said, now concerned.

"He doesn't think you are ever coming back to him. He's a broken man, John. And it's all your doing."

Watson didn't wait to reply, but hurried up the stairs to Sherlock's door as fast as his damned limp would allow. He hammered on the door. Part of him was desperate to hear Holmes's voice again, to see his face; but another part of him was scared of what he might find if he entered the room.

"Holmes?" he called. "Are you in there?" No answer. "Holmes?" he asked again. He felt his stomach clench. He turned the brass door knob and pushed. It took some effort to get the door open wide enough for him to slide inside due to the amount of mess piled up against it. The curtains were all closed, but Watson still noticed that the floor was strewn with empty bottles, discarded clothes and broken furniture.

"Watson," came Holmes's voice. He saw Holmes turn dramatically around on an armchair to face him. "What a s'prise," he slurred.

"How much have you had to drink?" Watson asked, surveying the dozens of empty whiskey and brandy bottles surrounding the detective.

"Not nearly enough, m'good fellow!" he shouted, raising the brandy bottle that was clutched in his hand as though making a toast. He made an attempt at standing up but nearly tipped over in the process.

"Holmes, sit down," Watson ordered firmly.

"Oh, someone's got their doctor's hat on today!" he said.

"How long have you been drinking like this?" Watson demanded.

"Well, if today is Tuesday..." he started thoughtfully, starting to count on his fingers, "about nineteen years," he said, grinning roguishly.

"You know what I mean, Holmes. How long have you been drinking since I last saw you? And it's not Tuesday, it's Friday."

"I've been drinking since you ab... abnan... abandoned me," he said, stumbling over his words. "So... three days?" He seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes fixed on the doctor. He kept blinking hard as though he was trying to clear his vision.

Watson's stomach clenched tighter. Mrs Hudson had been right; Holmes was in a bad way. He had seen his friend drunk before, but there was something different about him this time. He had dark circles under his eyes, his face was gaunt and sallow and he still had yellowish bruises on his face. If he had been active and healthy, his bruises would have dispersed weeks ago. It didn't look like Holmes had eaten or slept in days. When he looked in to Holmes's dark eyes, he couldn't see the vibrant, impulsive, shrewd detective he used to know. All he saw was a shell. Guilt clawed at his insides as Mrs Hudson's furious words played in his head. _He's a broken man, John, and it's all your doing._

"Sherlock," Watson started gently, "what date is it?"

"Why, it's the 26th of October, old chap."

"No, Sherlock, it's the 16th of November."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he said. "You buggered off with Mary on the 23rd. Now it's the 26th."

"Holmes, I haven't seen you in three and a half weeks. I can assure you that it's November the 16th." He approached the chair that Sherlock was sitting in. "Maybe it's time to stop drinking," he suggested, reaching out to take the bottle of brandy from his hand.

"No!" Holmes shouted, batting the doctor's hand away and clutching the bottle to his chest.

"Yes!" Watson retorted, grabbing the bottle, but Holmes wouldn't let it go. "Sherlock Holmes, do not make me hit you with my cane."

Holmes suddenly looked annoyed. His deep brown eyes, although duller than usual, flashed with indignation. He stood up abruptly, staggering a little as he did so. Still clutching the bottle, he faced the doctor. Watson had to stop himself from recoiling at the stench of liquor and formaldehyde burning his nose.

"Damn it Watson," Holmes shouted, no longer slurring his words. "I am thirty-one years old and I can look after myself. Stop treating me like a petulant child!"

"You are thirty-seven and I will stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one!" Watson yelled back, snatching the bottle from him.

"Give it back!" Holmes commanded. His order would have been a lot more convincing if he hadn't had to hold on to the back of the chair for support.

"Get in to bed." Watson ordered, staring unflinchingly in to Holmes' eyes. Holmes scowled at him for a few moments, but did as he was told.

"Now give me back my bottle," he said.

"No, you've had enough."

"My dear Watson, if I can still touch my finger to my nose then I have not had nearly enough." He brought his hand up to his face to illustrate his point, but missed his nose and poked himself in the eye.

"Oh..." he said, confused.

"Try to get some sleep," Watson said, pushing piles of discarded clothes from the bed in an attempt to clear some space for him to sit. Holmes hadn't even made that effort; he had just ploughed through the mess and clambered under the covers.

Holmes lay in the bed for a few moments before sitting up again. "What are you doing here, Watson?" he asked, looking suspicious.

"I wanted to see you," he said. He wasn't being entirely truthful, but there was no point explaining the real reason for his presence when Holmes was unlikely to remember any of it anyway. "And I want to help you," he added.

"I don't need your help," Holmes shot back.

"Holmes, you are living in a pigsty. I think it's clear you need me to assist you."

"I don't need you to help me," he said again.

"You can lead a horse to water..." Watson muttered exasperatedly.

"I take it I'm the horse in that little analogy?" Holmes asked, glaring at him. Watson hadn't really intended Holmes to hear him. "You know I hate horses! They are dangerous at both ends and - "

"Crafty in the middle," Watson finished. "Yes, you've mentioned."

"So you must be the water if I'm the horse. Watson is water, and Holmes is the horse. Ha. That's funny. So, yes, as I was saying, you are the water; the water that this horse needs but won't drink. Well I've got news for you, John, I _don't_ need you or your metaphorical water. You have been gone for nearly a month and I have done fine without you."

"Fine?" Watson asked, giving an incredulous laugh, gesturing to the dank, grubby bombsite that lay before him .

"Yes, fine," Holmes said stubbornly.

"Right. You evidently don't need me. I'll just be going," Watson shouted, his quick temper flaring. He was used to having to reason with a drunken Sherlock Holmes but never before had it been so infuriating.

"Fine! Leave! You seem to be getting exceptionally good at that!" Holmes shouted.

"FINE!" Watson roared back, tossing the brandy bottle on to the bed and limping to the door. If Holmes was going to be so damn exasperating then he could suit himself. Watson wasn't sure what he had hoped for in his reunion with his best friend, but this certainly wasn't it. He took one disappointed and frustrated look back at the detective and slammed the door shut behind him.

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><p><strong>AN Thank you for reading! Please, please review with any thoughts, comments, tips etc. It would be greatly appreciated, I'm always trying to improve! **


	9. Consolation

Holmes awoke the next morning to his familiar, pounding headache. He reached blindly for his bottle of brandy which was usually within arm's reach. He groaned in frustration as he groped around for it, only to discover that it wasn't there.

Unwillingly, he sat up in bed and opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh afternoon light.

All too soon, the cogs of his mind started turning. As he looked around the room, his eyes began to notice every minute detail of his surroundings, and it was not helping his throbbing headache. Such was his curse.

He had the feeling he had dreamed of Watson the night before, but the hazy memories were already slipping away like sand through his fingers. It was not unusual for him to dream of his old companion, however, so he did not give it any more thought.

Heaving himself from the bed, he staggered to the drinks cabinet. There was very little left and Mrs Hudson refused to restock it for him.

As he shifted the bottles, two of them collided, causing a loud clinking noise. The noise hit his ear as if it had been a sledgehammer, his head pounding in protest. The sooner he could start drinking again, the sooner this hangover would go away.

He continued to move the bottles, more carefully this time, searching for something strong enough to take the edge off his depression.

Eventually he came across some vodka he had procured when a case of his had led him to a cold, snow blanketed Russia.

He was just readying himself to spend another day in an alcohol induced stupor when something made him prick up his ears.

He could hear Mrs Hudson talking to someone on the floor below. It was not often that she had visitors. He could not make out what was being said but he could distinctly hear a man's voice talking back.

It only took him a few seconds to realise that it was Watson.

What was he doing here? Holmes quickly went through all the possible reasons in his mind for Watson's presence. He filtered out the least probable and was left with only two.

Either John was here to collect some of his belongings or he was asking Mrs Hudson to look after Gladstone for a few days.

He briefly entertained the idea that Watson had changed his mind and told his wife that he did not want to spend his life without Holmes.

"How flattering it would be," he muttered sarcastically to himself, "to be Watson's second choice of companion."

To his great surprise, he heard Watson's uneven gait as he climbed the stairs and approached Holmes' room.

Holmes hurried to his chair beside the unlit fire, casting aside his vodka bottle and attempting to tidy his appearance slightly before Watson entered.

He heard the familiar click of the door opening behind him.

At the sound of the door, he had a flood of memories from the night before. He had not dreamed of Watson, he had actually seen him. They had fought. He did not know the subject of their row; the mist of inebriation still clouded his brain.

Watson hadn't said anything on entering the room. Holmes turned around to face the doctor. He had to do no more than glance at his old friend to discover the reason for his visit, and it was something Holmes had not even considered. Mary was dead.

* * *

><p>"Oh, my dear Watson," he said, standing to face his friend.<p>

"Holmes," he said, a little curtly.

"Join me," the detective said, gesturing to Watson's chair beside him.

Watson obliged, not quite meeting Holmes' eyes.

"I want to talk to you about something."

"Talk away, old chap,"

"It's about Mary," he said, his words laden with sorrow. "She -"

"Died only a few days ago," Holmes interjected.

"Yes," Watson said, frowning a little at Holmes, no doubt wondering how he knew this. Of course, Holmes could tell so much about Watson from his appearance alone. His mannerisms provided the detective with even more information about him; where he had been, what he had done, how he was feeling.

Watson continued. "It was -"

"Typhoid fever," Holmes finished.

"Yes... She must -"

"Have caught it while she was in Cornwall? Yes, I quite agree."

"Holmes, would you please -"

"Stop finishing your sentences?"

"Please."

They fell silent for a moment.

"Could I interest you in a drink?" he asked finally.

"If you wouldn't mind," Watson replied.

Holmes glanced to his woefully empty drinks cabinet and finally resorted to the vodka he had previously discarded.

After pouring himself and his companion a drink, he sat again, fingers pressed together, waiting for Watson to begin talk of his emotions.

Of course, Holmes would listen, silently making notes in his head of everything the doctor said, his tiny facial expressions revealing his feelings, the way his eyes changed when he spoke of something close to his heart, but Holmes would not often contribute to the conversation. He had lost his own dear Irene less than a year ago, so on some level, he could relate to Watson's pain, but they grieved so differently.

Eventually, Watson began to speak.

"I came by last night. I wanted to speak with you but -"

"I was too inebriated to engage in conversation." Holmes said.

Watson frowned at him for, yet again, finishing his sentence. Holmes felt a stab of guilt - not an emotion he felt often - for not being there for his friend when he needed him.

"What kind of a doctor can't save his own wife?" he choked suddenly.

"I'm sure you did everything you could."

"I knew she was ill the moment I saw her. I should have done something sooner," Watson continued as if Holmes hadn't spoken.

"Now, now," Holmes started, in an attempt at comforting the doctor, but consolation had never been a strong point of his.

Watson let out a long sigh, resting his forehead in his hand for a moment, before divulging the reason for his visit.

"I came to ask if you would accompany me to the funeral."

Holmes paused for a moment. An entire day of grief stricken, weeping families was his idea of Hell, but this was no time for his opinions. Truthfully, he was a little touched that Watson would want him there, especially after the way he had treated the doctor the night before.

"Of course," he said.

Watson nodded his gratitude but seemed unwilling to continue the talk of his late wife.

"How did you -"

"Know what you were going to say?" Holmes finished, reflexively.

"Will you stop that?" Watson asked, irritation lacing his voice. The mood between them was still a little strained; their conversation felt stiff. More calmly he asked, "How did you even know she had died?"

Relieved to have moved the conversation away from grief and on to his own genius, he happily answered.

"It began with the way you entered the room," Holmes started. "As something of a gentleman, few things mean more to you than good manners, so for you to walk in without knocking was my first clue that something was wrong.

"On top of that, if you don't mind me saying, dear fellow, you have the gaunt appearance of someone who has not eaten in a few days. This was confirmed to me when you sat beside me and I detected a sweet smell on your breath, a sure sign of someone who has been starving themselves.

"Now, in my extensive experience, there are only two reasons why you would stop eating. The first is that you have been so wrapped up in your work that you have forgotten to eat, or you are upset. The former was disproved when I noticed the lack of ink stains on your fingers which I so often see when you have been tirelessly writing medical notes.

"Usually if you were upset by something, your wife would ensure you still had something to eat. Since that was not the case, it was clear that she was not with you. As for the typhoid fever, I had read recently that there was an unusual outbreak in Cornwall and the surrounding areas.

"Mary has been back from Cornwall for nearly four weeks, long enough for the disease to manifest itself and to ultimately kill her."

Watson blanched a little when Holmes said that, clearly not used to hearing someone else speak of her death.

"Furthermore, it is customary for you to wear shades of brown or grey but - be it subconsciously or otherwise - you have opted to wear black today, the colour so often worn by the grieving."

"You are right on every count, as always," Watson said. After a heavy silence, Watson spoke again. "God, Holmes, I miss her."

"I know." That was as far as Holmes could venture in to the land of consolation and sympathy, but he could tell that Watson appreciated it.

The pregnant silence appeared again, to be broken several minutes later by Mrs Hudson entering his room.

"Sherlock, you have mail," she said, not even looking at the detective as she threw several envelopes on to the ever growing pile of correspondence by the door.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Holmes replied, politely.

She stopped in her tracks.

"You're..." she started, staring at him in complete shock.

"Sober?" he asked. "Yes, I am. And I intend to stay so. Would you mind passing me those letters?"

Still completely taken aback by Holmes' sudden sobriety, she handed him the envelopes.

"Shall I bring some tea and crumpets?" she asked.

"That would be wonderful," Watson answered, looking at his glass of vodka with slight disdain.

Holmes could not be sure, but he thought he saw the landlady give a little smile, perhaps of relief, as she left the room.

Holmes tore open the first of the letters. He scanned it once, twice and a third time to ensure he had understood.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I am writing to request your assistance with the disappearance of my father._

_Only two nights ago, he vanished from his bed. He took none of his belongings, nor did he leave any clues of his whereabouts._

Holmes stopped reading to scoff at this. There were always clues to be found. But his interest peaked when he read the next paragraph.

_My father is the fifth man to have disappeared from our town in little under a month. _

_There is much talk in our town of Satanic rituals and demonic beings, and I can't help but wonder how much of it is true._

Holmes felt almost giddy at the idea of disproving an entire town's theory, replacing their wild accusations with his rational, intelligent, reasoned explanations.

Holmes looked to Watson. Ordinarily, he would have started on this case immediately, but for the moment, his friend and the funeral he had to attend were more important.

"What is it, Holmes?"

"The game's afoot, Watson," Holmes said, pleased to see the flicker of a smile on the doctor's face when he heard the familiar phrase.

As the two old friends locked eyes, they both knew, for the first time in a long time that things were going to be alright. In the midst of everything else, they had each other.

The End?

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><p><strong>AN Thanks to any of you who have stayed with this story even after the long wait for this final chapter. Please leave a review if you have a few moments.**


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